


Like Honey With Water

by Jenwryn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Future Fic, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly wonders whether it had simply been a lack of imagination. (Set, vaguely, some time after the events of "The Great Game".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Honey With Water

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where the hell this came from. Just. What?

This wasn't how life was supposed to turn out. This wasn't part of the plan. Not that Molly had had a plan, but – oh, who's she trying to kid? Of course she'd had a plan, she was a planning kind of girl. And this, this here, this now, this curved softly beneath her gently stroking fingertips – this hadn't been a part of it. Not even remotely. Not so much as a jot. The blueprints of this hadn't even existed when she'd been carefully laying out imaginings of her ideal future; carefully writing them down on pieces of paper, tucked in the back of a notebook in the bottom drawer of her desk. Those plans, those literal, honest-to-God plans, had been designed with a dark-haired man in mind. Those plans had been edited, a little, for yet another dark-haired man. Those plans had fallen apart terribly, of course; had been shredded in a rush of blood and chlorine and acute humiliation. Those plans had blown up in her face, almost quite literally—

(she'd burnt them, the papers, in the rubbish bin, in her kitchen flat; the place had reeked of plastic and regret for two days afterwards)

—and they'd never, never, at any point, involved this.

Molly wonders whether it had simply been a lack of imagination.

Sarah shifts, turning beneath the light weight of Molly's arm. Her breath is warm against Molly's skin. Her breasts are heavy and familiar beneath her t-shirt; Molly's grown inexpressibly fond of them, in a way that manages to startle her even now, as though she can know it intellectually, but is still battling with it on some other level. Molly's grown fond of Sarah's expression too, especially this sleeping face, with her lips all pursed as though she dreams complicated dreams, and her pale lashes restless.

It's Molly's home, Molly's room. It's Molly's window that the early morning light is just beginning to gleam through, like honey with water mixed in. All this space is Molly's, yes, but it's dotted with Sarah's things. Sarah's hairbrush, next to Molly's comb. Two of Sarah's belts, hung over the back of a chair. Sarah's favourite work blouse, hooked on the doorknob of Molly's wardrobe. It's the closest Molly's ever come to _living_ with anyone, since she'd moved out of home at the end of university, and it makes her lungs hurt with a kind of painful pleasure that she doubts she'll ever be capable of truly expressing.

Molly dips her head, presses a kiss to Sarah's shoulder and—

(such a strange part of life, the way that one thing can turn into another, without your conscious consent; it was John, who'd brought them to this, really; a complicated process, involving far too much Aggravated Sherlock, a stolen bottle of wine that had been worth more than Molly's entire worldly goods, a half-decimated corpse, and, strangely enough, a cat that had ended up adopting the both of them; a night spent huddled in the corner of a bar, too, lamenting Sherlock, and men, and John, and each other; actually, no, Molly still isn't entirely sure how they'd gone from there, to here, but she and Sarah have pretty much decided that they don't really care)

—Sarah shifts even closer, slipping one of her knees between Molly's. Sarah's plait has come loose, strands of pale hair against pale skin. Molly spreads her fingers against Sarah's back, traces her thumb against freckles. The sun is growing brighter, warmer, slanting in through the lace of the curtains and dappling them with flecks of silver-white. Half an hour, says the clock on the beside table, and the both of them are going to have to get up and start moving their way towards being ready for work. That's the plan, anyway.

Molly is a bit over plans.

She's a bit over a lot of things, actually. For example, caring what a certain consulting detective might think about her looks. Or, for that matter, caring whether or not he thinks he can make a smartarse comment about her seeming 'sexually fulfilled recently', just to try and rattle her into signing things over to him when she shouldn't. The fact is, it doesn't rattle her any more, and she doesn't sign unless she feels like it; oh, she's never seen a grown man pout quite as much as he does. Sarah finds the stories terribly amusing.

Sarah, actually, finds a lot of things amusing. Like the way in which that same consulting detective doesn't seem to resent her getting caught up in his cases anymore, not like he used to, simply because John has transformed into her best friend rather than her boyfriend—

(at some point, Molly thinks, the dark-haired genius is actually going to figure out the implications of that)

—and, quite possibly, because he's realised that Sarah holds a certain sway over his access to Molly and the morgue.

"Hello, you," Sarah mumbles into Molly's neck.

The sunshine is colouring her body, as she curves her hand around Molly's hip.

And, no, this wasn't how things was supposed to turn out, and it certainly wasn't in the plans, but Molly thinks, suspects, hopes that it might, instead, indeed, be something better.


End file.
